


Breaking and Entering

by StarsAreMassive



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ian breaks in, Ian can't flirt, Lip has a terrible idea, M/M, Mickey's amused, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 08:44:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17443640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAreMassive/pseuds/StarsAreMassive
Summary: Lip plans a simple job and recruits Ian's help. When it inevitably goes wrong, Ian hides out in someone's apartment.This someone notices.





	Breaking and Entering

It had been a truth drilled into him since he was old enough to understand words. A celtic wisdom of sorts passed down through generations of Gallaghers. His brothers, his sisters, his father, all swore by it. He’d seen it come true for each of them a dozen times. But Ian had never felt the truth of of this wisdom hit _him_ before today.

But now, with the Northside Chicago wind whipping his face and the lights of Southside flickering and beckoning to him in the distance, he felt it. He _knew_ it.

Lip Gallagher, was a fucking _asshole_.

A simple job, he’d said. Sneaking into some hoity-toity, dusty old profs place, and stealing the term papers of some kids making Lip’s new lay’s sweet college life difficult. ‘ _No paper, no grade,’_ he’d shrugged with a far away look in his eyes, no doubt already planning how whoeverthefuck was going to “thank” him for a job well done.

Ian had agreed no sweat. An easy $50 each for 2 minutes and 14 seconds of work once they got there and Lip hacked into the security systems and disabled all the alarms and cameras. Sometimes it really paid off having a genius for a brother.

Except, though, when their heads were that far in the clouds that they forgot about the little things. Like say, dogs for example. Or 2 strong, healthy Dobermans, to be all specific about it.

Turns out, you couldn’t hack into dogs and turn ‘em off.

Lip, the idiot, had tried to pet them – let them know he was friendly. But the dogs weren’t interested in his offer and he nearly lost his damn hand. _‘You try programming with one hand, Ian!’_ he’d hear for days afterwards.

After the clack of the dogs’ jaws as they met air, survival instincts kicked in and they turned tail and _run_. Right out the front door they’d calmly strolled through not 30 seconds ago.

The dogs were snarling for blood as the Gallagher brothers nearly fell out of the driveway, tripping over each other and trying to put as much distance between themselves and the dogs as possible. The fuckers had no respect for territory lines, and Ian felt them snap at his heels even as they gunned it down the street and got further and further away from the house.

He'd barely heard Lip gasp, _‘Split up! Split up!’_ , before he saw him diving into someone’s driveway and heading into their back garden. The darkness swallowed him up with one of the hell hounds right on his fucking ass.

Ian risked a shaky look over his shoulder and saw the other one was still on him. It was swallowing up the distance Ian was covering like his life depended on it, calm as shit. Like it was taking the time to plan exactly what to do with his ass once he fucked up and fell over or lost ground.

Well. Fuck that. Ian wasn’t becoming a chew toy for anyone – especially not some chick letting his brother throw it in her.

He hurled himself around the corner, away from the brownstones and onto a leafy street lined with apartment buildings. Nothing too fancy, but still a step up from North Wallace.

On his left, he saw it – his lord and saviour - a rusted, flaky paint covered fire escape that someone had left half down. He didn’t even break stride. Ian planted one foot on the hood of someone’s Lexus (which still had all its wheels – seriously, where _was_ he?), and pushed off as hard as he could until he felt metal underneath his fingertips.

And really, thank fuck for ROTC training, because the dog was a ballsy fucker too and jumped right up onto the hood, and leapt at him, snarling and spitting.

Ian braced his core, pulled his legs to his chest and rolled onto the landing as fast as he could, his calf just missing out on an intimate knowledge of the bite pressure of a security dog.

Ian’s chest was heaving, his lungs panting for air and he could feel the sweat matting his hair underneath his ROTC cap. Furious that it had lost its prize, the dog was barking up a storm below him. It may not have been as ritzy a neighbourhood as the professor's, but it certainly looked like it had its shit together enough that the residents would look twice out their windows to see what all the fuss was about. Somehow, Ian wasn’t confidant that he’d be seen as the innocent bystander in all of this. He needed an escape route.

The apartment the fire escape landing looked in on, looked like it was all locked up for the night. The lights were of and he could see any movement inside. He quickly tried the window and thanked the Northside gods that these bougie motherfuckers thought their shit didn’t stink and their houses weren’t gonna get robbed.

Laughing in disbelief, Ian sent the dog a one-fingered salute.

“Nice try, motherfucker!”

Ian slid the window all the way open, threw one leg inside and quickly ducked into the apartment.

He was crouched on something solid. He suspected he was in the kitchen on the countertop or something, but he couldn’t see much in the dark.

He had meant to brace his hands on the countertop, jump down, and leave through the front door. He could camp out in the lobby for an hour or so until that mutt had given up and gone back home. Except, he really should have paid more attention, or used the flashlight on his phone or something – anything a normal person would have done. Instead of bracing his hands against a nice, sturdy counter, they met thin air and he went crashing down with a heavy thud and a violent curse and cracked his head off the tiled floor.

"Fuck  _off!_ "

He’d forgotten, for a minute, that he was trespassing. He laid on the floor and writhed in pain, clutching his head and being none too quiet about it.

“Jesus fucking _Christ!_ Who has _tiles_ anymore? Sunnuvabitch!”

“Well. You ain’t wrong.”

Yeah. That reminded him where he was and he he was doing real fast.

Ian sat up so quick it made his head dizzy and his throat burn and he had to lean with his back against the cupboards and his legs splayed out in front of him. His vision was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking the sound of a cocked gun or the sight of a glock staring you in the face. 

When his head stopped hurting and he could stand without vomiting, he vowed to kill Lip. He hoped he was getting his ass gnawed on by a Doberman right now.

“Chose the wrong apartment to do a little B&E, Sherlock.”

Ian would blame the concussion later, but the words had tumbled out before he could catch them.

“Just E. No B. The window was open.”

The man blinked, cursed, and spat. “Fucking Mandy.”

He came closer, still holding the gun firmly in two hands but taking more time to take in Ian's sorry state on the floor. Ian finally got a good look at him, too. His hair was black – natural it looked like instead of those awful dye jobs some guys swore by. In the little light that filtered in through the window, his skin looked pale enough to rival Ian's own. He was stocky. His boxers and vest shirt showed off thick thighs and muscular arms, and Ian's mind was going to all of the wrong places because even though he should have been more concerned about other things like how many guns were pointed at him, he caught himself wishing the guy would turn around so he could see if he had a bubble butt.

He bet he had a bubble butt.

Even without a concussion Ian had never been smooth or subtle, and apparently he'd been a tad too generous eyeing up the view to get away with it.

“Hey asswipe. Up here.”

Ian's eyes flew up to the man’s face. He was much closer now and Ian could see his eyes were pale. Blue – they had to be blue. His lips  were full, and, well, Ian had never known he could even be attracted to eyebrows, but here they were.

“Y’got ten seconds, man. Get the fuck up and get back out that window, or eat a bullet.”

Ian wasted five of those seconds staring at the most perfect face he'd ever seen.

“C’mon. Get up. I ain’t playin’”

_I mean really,_  he thought to himself. _How can talking be sexy? Jesus. Get a grip._ _Though I betcha he has a nice one – are those tattoos?_

The man crouched down next to him, the gun pointed at Ian’s lung. He leaned in close to the redhead, voice low and gravelly with sleep and – probably – anger. He growled next to Ian’s ear.

“Gimmie one reason  why I shouldn’t shoot you right now?”

Ian struggled to stomp down his ridiculous, _inappropriate,_ attraction to this man before he got himself killed. But seriously, ‘ _Fuck me.’_

The guy stood up, loomed over Ian and looked at him, stunned. The gun was pointing uselessly back into the kitchen.

“Huh. Not the usual line here man, gotta admit.”

Sweet. Holy. Fucking. God.

He’d said that out loud. In a strangers kitchen – that he’d broken into – with a bleeding head wound and a gun on him, he’d maybe kinda asked to fuck the guy threatening to kill him. Why the fuck wasn't he dead?

But the word vomit wouldn’t stop.

“There’s a _usual line_? How many times times have you been through this?! What kind of Northside yuppie are you?”

The man fought down a smile and bit hard at his lip.

“More that you. Clearly. And fuck you man, I ain’t no yuppie. Ain't no Northside prick, either.”

“Where am I?” Ian looked around him for clues. Maybe he’d run farther than he thought.

The man stared at him for a minute, frowning and studying and biting his damn lip some more which was just distracting – “Can you stop doing that?” – until he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. Rolling his eyes, he clicked the safety on his gun, tucked it into the waist band of his boxers and put his hands on his hips. Like an exasperated housewife. Ian giggled, imagining the guy in an apron.

“You alright? You look kinda out it.”

“You got tile floors man. It hurt my head.”

The guy’s eyes flicked to his bloody head and the warmth Ian felt on the side of his face. He huffed and started rummaging.

“It hurt your head? Not like you went crashing into it when you were breaking into my place?”

“Not breaking –“

“ – just entering. The window was open. Got it.”

He found what he was like looking for, and with a noise of victory, pulled out a small box. Setting it down on the floor next to Ian, he flipped the lid, and Ian saw it was full of band aids, gauze, pills and a bunch of other stuff.

“You gonna look after me?” he asked, delighted.

“ _Look - ?_ Shut the fuck up man. You’re bleeding on my floor. Hold still.”

The guy ripped open a packet of antiseptic wipes and dabbed at the wound on the side of his head. Ian flinched and sucked air in through his teeth.

“Fuck _sake._ That stings!”

The guy didn’t pay him any mind. “Yeah? Good. Shoulda been worried if it didn’t.”

Ignoring Ian’s struggling and cursing, they guy did a pretty good job of patching him up and cleaning the blood off him. The side of his head was all gauzed up before he knew it, and Ian was feeling pretty comfy on the tiles and wriggled to get comfy against the cupboards.

“What the fuck are you doin’?”

“M’sleepy,” he said and snuggled doorknob.

“Man-” Ian felt a whoosh of air when the guy shot to his feet. He’d quite happily wait right here for a couple of hours so the guy could get back to his bed, but the guy seemed to have other plans. “You ain’t sleepin’ here.”

Of course he was. “There’s a dog outside.”

He felt the guy staring at him. “What?”

“There’s a dog. Can’t go outside.”

“That’s not – “ the guy shuffled towards the window and when Ian cracked his eyes hey grinned when he saw he was standing on his tippy toes to peer out. “Well fuck. Big bitch isn’t it?”

“Mhmm. Wants my ass.”

“Hmm.” The guy kicked him. “That’s not what I meant, anyhow. You can’t sleep on the floor, man. I got a couch.”

Ian happily raised his arms for the guy to grab onto, but made no effort to stand up. The guy huffed and bent down and slung one of Ian’s arms around his neck before hauling him to his feet. But he hadn’t expected Ian to be so tall or so heavy and his legs wobbled underneath them.

“What the _fuck_? Ho much do you fuckin’ weigh, man? Jesus. Move your ass.”

Ian did his best but his legs weren’t listening to his brain. His steps were slow he seemed more than confident that the guy wasn’t going to drop him.

Heaving and panting and saying things that would have given Ian a complex if he had been in his right mind, the guy finally got him over the the couch and dropped him right on his ass. Ian fell on his side, and nearly melted into the squidgy cushions. He felt something soft and warm being drawn up over his shoulders and his sneakers being slipped off his feet.

The guy kept muttering as he fluttered around him. “Unfuckingbelievable. A year ago and I woulda shot your ass, lucky fuck. Not playin’ your damn maid. Ay -!”

Ian felt a form slap to his cheek and his eyes shot open and he rubbed blearily at his face.  “Wha-“

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ian  focused on the hand being waived in his face, and saw two middle fingers standing proud.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too,” he said and burrowed himself back into the cushions and blanket.

A deep chuckle rumbled from somewhere above him. “Don’t get too comfy, princess. Gotta wake you every hour and make sure you don’t slip into a fuckin’ coma. The guys at work at gonna love you come tomorrow.”

“How come?” Ian mumbled.

“Because I’m a fuckin delight on no sleep.”

Two firm slaps to his back and Ian heard feet padding back out the room right before he slipped into blissful sleep.

* * *

Ian was woken by two things: a stabbing pain in his head and a burning in his eyes.

He dived face first into the soft pillows underneath him to hide from the blinding light suddenly all around him. He moaned brokenly as the movement jostled his brain and made the pain even worse. As if that was possible.

“Rise and shine, Raggedy Ann!”

It took a second for him to realise that wasn’t Lip's voice. Once he did, all the other little pieces started clicking into place, like he wasn’t in his own bed, it didn’t smell or sound like he was even in his own house, and did he climb through a fucking window and break his goddamn _face?_

Fuck it hurt.

Gently – very gently – he tilted to the side, raising on hand up to shield his eyes and opening them a crack in the vague direction of the voice.

There he was. The guy. The black-haired, thick-thighed, full-lipped, mouthy, beautiful asshole that had patched him up and hovered over him last night the few times he’d been able to slap him awake for a few seconds.

His eyes tracked him as the guy stepped away from the drapes and grinned in delight at Ian’s discomfort.

“It’s you,” Ian said, trying to pull himself into sitting.

“Mhmm,” the guy answered, quirking an eyebrow and leaning against the arm of the chair next to Ian’s sofa. “How’s the, uh –“ he tapped his forehead.

Like it could hear him, Ian’s brain started throbbing and he gingerly lifted a hand to touch along the gauze at the side of his head. _Fuck_ , he choked down a curse.

“Yeah that’s what I thought.” The guy laughed at him and trotted out of sight. Ian wanted to turn and follow him with his eyes, but he was too busy clutching his head and stopping his brains from falling out – or that’s what it felt like anyway. He didn’t even notice the guy had come back until there was a soft thump on the coffee table, and Ian saw a glass of water and two white pills next to it.

A gift from the fucking gods. From the beautiful motherfucker right here, who’s name he didn’t even know.

He heaved himself to sitting and stuffed the pills in his mouth, before gulping down the water as fast as he could, until it was dribbling out the sides.

He could still feel that amused gaze boring into him, before he finally looked at them. Blue. Just like he’d thought.

“ _Wha-_ “ Ian gasped and put the glass back on the table. “What’s your name?”

The guy’s jean clad leg bounced and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He laughed and peered at Ian from under his lashes. “We never did get that far last night, did we? Didn’t stop you from tryna fuck me, though.”

Ian snorted – he’d be mortified about it later – as flashes of last night when he got caught blatantly checking out the guy in front of him and uttering those immortal words came back to him.

“Mickey.”

Ian smiled and rested his head against the back of the couch. “Mickey. I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey stood up and sauntered towards the couch. He plucked at the blanket Ian had been draped in when he woke up and pushed it off. Ian stiffened and look up, bewildered.

“Well Ian Ian Gallagher, you gotta go. I’m heading out for work and there ain’t no way I’m leaving you here. Even if you are the worst fuckin’ robber I’ve ever seen.”

Ian grimaced and groaned but obediently pulled his sneakers towards him and started haphazardly shoving his feet inside. It wasn’t working for a while, until Mickey muttered “ _Jesus christ,”_ and bent down to swap them over.

“I wasn’t trying to rob you,” he grumbled as he did up his laces. “I just needed a place t’hide.”

“From the dog?” Mick asked.

“I told you about the dog?”

“Yup.”

“Is it gone?”

The guy huffed and fished a carton of cigarettes out his pocket. “Fuck man. Think pretty highly of yourself, don’tcha? You think that dog has camped out front all night for you?”

Ian looked panicked at the very thought.

“Calm your ass, it’s gone.” Ian watched as he sparked up a cigarette, and noticed the distinctive spidery ink spread across his knuckles.

He offered the smoke to Ian after a few drags. He leaned forward and plucked it from his fingers, tapping the ‘F’ on his pinky. “You Southside, Mick?”

Mickey studied his knuckles as Ian puffed softly on the cigarette, and nodded. “Born and raised.”

“Mind if I ask something?”

That got him an eyebrow. “Like I could fuckin’ stop you. You were yammerin’ at me until you fell asleep last night.”

Ian pretended to scowl but really, how someone could be so grumpy but so adorable was beyond him.

“How come you live here now?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Because I like breathing.” He snatched the cigarette back, got to his feet and gestured for Ian to do the same.

Ian reluctantly obeyed, but he snatched his cap and his jacket from the floor where they’d fallen and followed Micky out the door.

Mickey didn’t seem to concerned with making conversation. So Ian took the opportunity to try and be a smidge more subtle than he'd been last night. Mickey looked good dressed in worn jeans that looked soft to touch and a navy tee that hinted at the strong chest and body beneath. Ian thought it might be too suspicious to fall behind a little and get a better look at Mickey’s ass, but with the way he swaggered when he walked, he bet it looked fantastic.

He also couldn’t decide what looked softer – his skin or his lips. Mickey had combed his hair back with some gel and it looked like it would feel like silk between his fingers. He could get a good grip of it when they were kissing. He could test just how pillowy those lips were when he traced them with his tongue – see if he could get Mickey to spit out a few more curses since he seemed so fond of ‘em. He wondered how hard he could make him bite his lip –

“You gotta stop doing that, man.”

Ian snapped out of it and noticed the guy was staring at him staring. He felt a fierce blush rush up his neck and his cheeks, but was he fuck sorry.

“You got no chill, I swear to god.”

“Yeah well, chill never got you nowhere.”

They were at the lobby and Mickey had opened the door to the morning sun. He held it open and stepped back, letting Ian through first.

He peered out and looked down the street, craning for any sign of a rogue Doberman before two firm hands shoved him out the door flailing.

“Hey!”

“Some of us got work to go to, asswipe. I told you it was gone.”

Ian huffed and straightened his jacket. “You weren’t the one it chased for twenty blocks.”

Micky laughed low and stepped off to the right. Ian was headed to the left. He tried to ignore the awful feeling prickling in his gut. “Guess this is us, huh?”

Mickey didn’t answer. He just looked at him through the heavy lids and smirk that Ian thought was permanently etched on his face.

“Um, well, thanks for last night and not – y’know – shooting me.”

“No problem. Just maybe don’t try to rob me next time.”

“ _Fuck_ , I wasn’t trying to rob -!” Then his brain clicked. “Next time?”

Mickey stepped up into his space, and Ian got no little thrill to notice that Mickey was a couple inches shorter than him. But then there wasn’t much room in his brain for anything because Mickey was shoving his hands into Ian’s front pockets, reaching and searching and grabbing. Ian had always liked assertiveness and if the twitching down there was anything to go by, his dick was definitely on board with whatever Mickey was doing.

Mickey chuckled and Ian held his hands up, palms to the sky, as he pulled Ian’s beat up smart phone out of his pocket. He didn’t have to bother with the passcode. The Gallaghers shared phones like they shared clothes, and passcodes where a pain in the ass. Mickey punched at the screen and shoved the phone right back where he got it when he was done.

He looked up at Ian without stepping back. His eyes were pale and sparkling and his lashes were thick and black and Ian might have been drooling. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Those eyes flicked from Ian’s mouth to his hair. Mickey hummed low in his throat.

“Yeah. Next time. See ya, firecrotch.”

Mickey turn on his heel and walked off down the street, and Ian knew he’d have a fantastic ass but holy _shit_ that thing was on another level.

Mick didn’t look back, but Ian stared until he was out of sight. When he finally slipped out of sight, Ian grinned and trudged off home himself. Despite his _bitching_ headache, he had a new spring in his step. He couldn’t wait to get home. He had a brother to thank.


End file.
